


Homenum revelio.

by SangNoire



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hogsmeade, Marauders' Era, Prompt Fic, Shrieking Shack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 08:53:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12477892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SangNoire/pseuds/SangNoire
Summary: Some short prompt requests about pretty much everything from twitter. Please enjoy!





	Homenum revelio.

**Author's Note:**

> **KashmirSplendid** requested a prompt about the Shrieking shack and the unknown werewolf.
> 
> Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and all its characters is a property of J. K. Rowling and thus I don't own any names, locations and objects I will write about.  
> My musings are the only thing, that belongs to me.

Over the course of time, the old shack had become infamous to the villagers of Hogsmeade.  
Nobody exactly remembered, when the house had been abandoned, silently rotting away into the peaceful landscape of the small town, even as it just held a small spot on the verge of the village’s border.

Its unpleasant exterior had always begged the conclusion that something unfortunate must have happened to the owner. Ascertained a user of the Dark Arts may have cursed the house and even the ground it was built on, the villagers rarely wandered close to the barbed property, bleak and hollow as it stood, like a terrific landmark.  
Once in a blue moon a group of children used the spot for a trial of courage, secretly as they tend to, but even games like that were unwise to play nowadays.  
For most the fun and games had become frightening reality at the first weekend of September 1971.

The new student had filtered in alongside the former inhabitants of the castle, just like they used to do any year. The Three Broomsticks hosted the usual teacher’s celebration at the first weekend of the starting term, which usually livened up the face of the grim barkeeper. His stunning daughter, Rosmerta, usually enjoyed the banter of her former professors and occasionally felt brave enough to join in with some of her own adventurous stories. But this weekend, the celebration went quite differently.  
Most of the teachers were outright tense. Nobody but Albus Dumbledore seemed to enjoy their little party and Rosmerta had asked herself often, if the strange nightly happenings, that occurred during the next years, were linked to the long faces she had to endure this fateful night  
Looking back it seemed suspicious, that the Hogwarts staff resorted to tea and light beverages and not their usual brandies and the sneaky whisky here and there.  
They must have been aware of a possible danger to the small town.

This strange sight went on for a bit, until a startling noise ripped through the humming noise of low talking and the clinking of several glasses. The teachers collectively twitched like one extended entity and Dumbledore’s blue eyes moved to a window, right beside the entrance of the pub, where the attention of most guests and the barkeeper had moved all the same.  
Sometimes, when Rosmerta passed the spot where the old shack stood to this day, she remembered it clear as daylight, as if she had been hit quite suddenly by a bolt of lightning.

It was the most monstrous sound, she had ever heard. Inhuman and violent; an aggressive snarl, a shriek of terror and a deep, vicious growl, which had formed into one terrifying noise.  
For five minutes it seemed like the Three Broomsticks was empty. If Rosmerta had dropped one of her hairpins, the whole pub would have been intimately aware.  
The headmaster of Hogwarts was the first to address the staff with muffled words and soon the teachers filtered out, most likely to search for the source of the low rumbling and violent crashing, that continued to happen outside.  
They left the pub in a hushed, stunned state of dread and fear and Dumbledore lead them into the night, blithely and chattering with a tense Professor McGonagall, as if he had no care in this world.  
Rosmerta offered their shaken guests to use the fire place and Floo Powder for a safer journey home and helped her father to clean the bar, but her eyes kept straying to the door, as if something deadly and poisonous would jump through it, right inside their warm taproom at any moment.  
But nothing happened.

The noises kept steadily clawing at her sanity throughout the night and it was the first time that she was unable to even close her eyes out of a fear to be ambushed and silenced before she could even utter a noise.  
It was the longest night she had ever lived through (reminding her of the few weeks she had spent in her Hogwarts dormitoris, after learning what a Letifold was), but at some point, the violent noises stopped, giving way to low yelping or crying. She wasn’t sure.  
Luckily Rosmerta had never been the bravest person and so she chose to cover herself in her blanket, crying softly into her own pillow, instead of leaving the pub to search for a probable victim… to whatever crime had been commited this horrible night.

When she finally felt save to leave her bed at least, she slipped the blanket off her and sat up, still shaken and scared as she took a glimpse out of the window. There was nothing unusual to be seen in the streets, just a few faces, tired and ashen like her own, obviously searching through the streets for the nightly intrusion.  
It took around a week of continuous fear, even in the now silent nights, until Aberforth took her over to the deteriorated shack and pointed out to her, that something had changed around it, just recently.  
Rosmerta knew what he meant, even before he pointed out the damage to her… the doors and windows were all smashed and several bits of furniture had obviously been thrown outside right through them by some creature or force of immense strength.  
Aberforth, who was still standing beside her, leaned a little closer and curled his fingers conciliatory around her upper arm.  
“The headmaster installed new protective charms and wards. Nothing that wreaks havoc in there will get out. Obviously, the hearth of the fire was known to him all along.”  
Something dark flickered through his blue eyes.  
“Until they find a way to remove _it_ … it would be better, if nobody sets foot into the old shack, Rosie. If any child gets caught in there with… _that_ … well.” He patted her shoulder.  
Rosmerta nodded slightly. Certainly, Aberforth had always had a soft spot with her, but she completely understood his ulterior motive.

She was the youngest adult in town, aware of any troublemakers and with her work in the bar it would be easy to scatter some stories. Not only to attract tourists, but to scare them enough to stay outside the house.  
“So it was an animal?” She whispered softly and Aberforth snorted into his beard.  
“Something worse.” Was all he muttered, while she imagined the brute force that had wracked the old walls almost completely.  
She nodded slowly, but squinted her eyes in thought. A coincidence would have been too good to be true and she had to know. “We’ll make it a haunting. Poltergeists and mad ghosts. The old stories of a dark wizard cursing this ground are just going to help, really.” She mumbled and craned her neck to catch Aberforth’s eyes. He was looking at her thoughtfully.  
“Haunting ghosts are able to attack with brute strength and are almost incredible to drive away by a physical thread. Different compared to…” She squared her shoulders and Aberforth sent her an encouraging smile, before he turned away and went up the trail towards Hogsmeade. She waited for another moment, before she followed suit.

“Rosie, this needs to stay a secret between us.” She nodded slowly. Her father trusted Dumbledore, but she doubted that even he would tolerate something like… this in the village.  
“It’s just going to be once a month, at least.” She mumbled and took a nervous glance back over her shoulder. “During full moons…”  
Aberforth huffed lowly and rolled his shoulders, neither confirming, nor disclaiming her suspicion. His thoughts probably wandered to his brother again and she was convinced he had been through a lot of sleepless nights as well.

In fact, it was of no importance what wreaked havoc the next months and years through the floors and walls of the now called ‘Shrieking Shack’. It never got out and Rosmerta’s stories made largely sure that nobody got in either.  
But still during full moon nights, she shut her windows and doors extra tightly, rarely getting any sleep.  
It took the howling five years to diminish and sometimes it stayed absent, even during nights, where a pale, complete full moon illuminated the dreamy landscape. The young woman found this the most concerning. Reminiscent of a spider she had once tried to strike in her bathroom, which had just vanished. But her slight arachnophobia was an unreasonable threat, compared to the notion of a werewolf rampaging Hogsmeade at night, ready to rip their limbs off and tear their throats out.


End file.
